Pocket Diary Book Club

Achha… on the blog… we are writing memories of these two disjointed, timelapse like days. Send me some words, lines, paragraphs or novels.

I will do it in the style of Stephen King, disjointed words forming a coherent picture when read in rapid succession, he said.

2 AM. Half asleep travels. Music recommendations. Verbal journeys. Morning break. Rest and recuperate. Beautiful flowers, pressed and preserved.

Floating in the pool. Infinite sky. Volleyball or throwball? Scrumptious lunch. Words. Wine Wisdom? My story. Letters unanswered. Tears of joy, tears of laughter.

“Come on in, the water’s fine!”

Sunset. Surreal. Infinite. Pause.

Conversations on expectations. Jazz. Books.

Shiv Shakti, in Shiv Shakti point. Night sky. Insignificance. Words on the breeze. Neil Diamond. Moonrise. More words, sheltered.

Drowsy. Drooping. Sleep.

Pillow fights!

Tea. Bread. Poolside conversations. The lion and the elephant. Symbols. “Man” & “Woman”. Breakfast.

Packing. Sorting. Stuffing. Careful. Balancing. Bees. Purple. Sunlight. Photos. Memories. Onward!

Serpentine. Stop. Air. Sunflowers. Serene. Sunny. Sajjangarh.

Long conversations. History. Intricate. Marks on the wall. View. Photography. Mother tongues. Food. Anachronistic dioramas. King. Kingdom.

Stories.

Foooooooooood. Food!

Driving back. Suffering. Wisdom. Vanity. Rebirth? Sunset. Parroting sexism. Songs. Bismillah!

Energy. Crescendo. Dance. Lights. Moves. Triumph. Infinite.

Chai.

Storytime. “Subtle” signs. Stumbled. Facepalm. Traveller. Tired. Smooth songs. Jose Gonsalez. Spark? Lightning. Momentous. Calm. Comfort. One.

M83. Deep space. Space Song. Dreamy. Floating.

Wordsmiths. Shadb. Shayr. Standing? Twirling. Dancing. Transfixed. Listening. Dissecting.

Goodbyes.

Almost there. Plans. Saudade.

Goodbyes. Trance. Silence. Tranquility.

– Bharat Saigahun

…

Yogesh Ji was tired and his face with an effort smile under tired eyes, reminded us of his strength and patience. Ruchi asked him, ‘Which is your comfort movie?’

Her way of trying to reach him was simple and I thought,

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai Ruchi, tum nahi samjhogi.

Somewhere in the vast continuum of space and time, a pen moves, spinning words into a fabric of prose so that someday, a group of people with shared love for literature may wear it as a blanket under the starry sky, lost in it’s inscriptions against the backdrop of the dark night.

-Ruchi Das

…

Janvi had better drink up Before the coffee gets cold. Bhavita, aur kya kahu Tumhare Baare Me? Shaurya is An Unsustainable Boy. Nahi, nahi, An Unsuitable Boy.

Sandeep said,

A “Guide for the Perplexed” was written–believe me–

by Cordoba’s Jew–Maimonides–in Arabic.

Majnoon, by stopped caravans, rips his collars, cries “Laila!”

Pain translated is O! much more–not less–in Arabic.

When Lorca died, they left the balconies open and saw:

On the sea his qasidas stitched seamless in Arabic.

Ah, bisexual Heaven: wide-eyed houris and immortal youths!

To your each desire the say Yes! O Yes! in Arabic.

I too, O Amichai, saw everything, just like you did–

In Death. In Hebrew. And (please let me stress) in Arabic.

They ask me to tell them what Shahid means: Listen, listen:

It means “The Beloved” in Persian, “witness” in Arabic.

…

Look, it’s the milky way, it is visible in the sky.